


Refuge

by mysticalmarigold



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Black Eye, Father Francis Mulcahy - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Roman Catholicism, Whump, baby gets the shit beat out of him., francis backstory?, he’s fine, irish nun!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalmarigold/pseuds/mysticalmarigold
Summary: Francis Mulcahy is cold, hurt, and exceedingly tired. The cathedral is huge, inviting, and an escape from the elements.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> HEY Y’ALL. there is something deeply wrong with me for beating the shit out of all these characters i am so sorry anyways here’s 1103 words of francis mulcahy being sad and a nice nun lady i decided to add. again, as always, she’s not annoying i promise, and i hope you like her. also as always, my tumblr is shermanpotter if you wanna get a hold of me! any feedback is welcomed, just pls be nice! 🤍
> 
> i might add some chapters it depends on reception tbh i’ve had this in my drafts for AGES so let me know if you like it and want more!!!

December 21st, 1932

Swallowing the bile that was creeping up his throat, Francis Mulcahy looked over his glasses at his opponent. They were thick as could be and he could barely see when he wasn’t looking through them, but his father had told him it looked cool. He’d also thrown in a comment that Johnny-boy could use all the coolness he could get in the ring, but Francis tried to block that out. He blocked most of what his father said out. 

His opponent, thirty pounds and five inches bigger than him, took two steps towards him. Francis took one step back before slamming into the corner pad of the ring. He was, quite literally, cornered, so he used his smaller stature to go through the man’s legs. 

It would’ve been a brilliant move if the larger man hadn’t pivoted and punched Francis squarely in the nose, breaking his glasses and sending him down to the ground. He hit the mat hard and didn’t get up until two grown men picked him up by his arms and threw him out of the ring on his ass. By then, the fight had been called and Francis had lost big time. He could tell that he would have a shiner for a good few days, but other than the sensation of blood leaking down his face, he was numb. He was always numb. 

Throwing his gloves over his shoulder, he began his trek home. He’d be arriving empty handed, but it was late and his father may not find out until morning. He still might be able to get a good night’s sleep. If he could sleep, he could forget about the fact that nobody would want to bet on the kid that, this season, had a losing streak of 4-1. No bets meant he didn’t get a cut. Not getting a cut meant that bills were a little harder to pay. Bills not getting paid meant that his father would be in poor spirits until the next paycheck came in. 

It was a Philadelphia winter, bitterly cold and unforgiving, especially for a boy without a coat. Francis walked along the streets with his arms wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to warm up, passing people who were so concerned with themselves that they didn’t even notice a kid with a bloody nose and a blackening eye coming right towards them. He had just taken a hard left to avoid a group of older boys who made his heart pound and his hands shake when he noticed a beautiful golden glow that seemed to beckon him closer. 

He glanced up through his shattered glasses and found his eyes continuing to move up, up, up. He took in every part of the cathedral, golden light radiating from inside and reflecting off of the snow into the black night. He couldn’t take the cold anymore and wanted to get away from the group of rough kids on the corner, so he threw his body against the door to open it. 

He tumbled into the cathedral when the massive oak door opened more easily than he expected and fell to his knees on the cold marble.

The church was warm even though the marble floor was cold. He couldn’t take his eyes off the chandeliers that hung above the wooden pews. Slowly standing, Francis took in his surroundings and allowed himself to breathe. He’d been holding his breath without noticing, so it came more as a gasp for air. 

The noise rang through the church, and Francis clamped a hand over his mouth in surprise. Oh dear, the last thing he wanted was to call attention to himself in a place he may not be supposed to be. 

Shoes clicked on the marble floor and a gentle voice called out into the church, “Is anybody there?” 

Francis saw no point in hiding, but he didn’t respond either. He simply stood by the edge of a pew in the back row, eyes scanning the room for the source of the voice.

A tall woman emerged from behind a pillar, her hand on the rosary in her belt. 

“Hello?”

Francis moved into the pew and sat with a thump, keeping his eyes down and staring at the floor. His feet were so close to touching the floor, but he wasn’t quite there yet. 

The unfortunate thing about gravity is that it doesn’t stop working when it’s convenient for you. Francis wiped his nose a little too hard as he stared at the ground and brought on another downpour of blood. He tried to plug his nose with the back of his hand, but it was all going south, and fast. He looked around to see if the sister who was looking for him had lost interest, but she hadn’t. Her face was soft with compassion as she pursed her lips and cringed at his sorry state. She pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and quickened her walk to make it to the child in time. 

“Oh dear...” she mumbled, dropping to her knees next to him. 

“Is it alright if I help you?”

Francis looked at her, wide eyes brimming with tears. This woman looked kind. Round around the middle with clear green eyes that suggested sympathy, dark bangs that peeked stubbornly out from her coif, and a gentle, beautiful smile. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-eight, and she looked like she wouldn’t hurt him. Against his better judgement, against all he’d learned from the various troubles he’d gotten himself into when he trusted strangers, Francis nodded and let her wipe his face. Silently, she went to work, wiping his face clean of blood and tears. He sat in the pew shaking with anxiety, though he could feel the beginnings of relief deep inside of his chest. His stomach churned. Had the bishop found him, he might’ve had a less pleasant experience. One that involved a good yelling-at and kicking-out. 

“I’m Nellie. Sister Nellie,” she finally said after cleaning his face up enough so that it was no longer actively bleeding. His stomach growled and he fidgeted in his seat, embarrassed of the loud sound in the quiet church.

“Have you eaten today, lad?”

Francis stared at the floor, his eyes beginning to water again. He probably would’ve fought better if he’d had something to eat. Why was he so _stupid_. 

Sister Nellie took a deep breath. 

“Let’s go get you some supper,” she whispered, taking his little icy hand and squeezing it gently. “Maybe you’ll feel better with some food in ya.”


End file.
